It's almost funny the way they feel me out - not to be confused with feeling me up, which, incidentally, is another of their tactics, but I will get to that. They are all so predictable, each no different than the last. As prey in the world of flying predators, I have grown accustomed to the stealth - or lack thereof - with which these pilots stalk.
It begins with a flash of pearly whites - or sometimes slightly browns - in my direction. After the third implication-laden grin I grow suspicious. The smile I wore on our initial meeting becomes a mere sticker on my face, plastered there for all to see, albeit few recognize that it's actually fake. My eyes sheath dangerous daggers, but like most animals at the top of the food chain, they feel invincible, and fail to note the danger belied in my clover stare.
Mistaking my faux-grin for an actual smile they attempt a PG joke, one bordering on slightly inappropriate. After which, of course, they snicker together as if no one gets it but them, reminding me of horny middle school boys. As is typical in the airline industry, there are many "pretty young things" out there, my crew usually consisting of at least one of them. And that one typically laughs loudest at the simpering one-liner, a flick of her hair or an "omg, that's SOOO funny" accompanying her high-pitched giggle.
If I do laugh it is out of politeness and the deflection of potential drama, but it rarely grows past a grunted "ha." If I'm in a supremely good mood - as in, I just won the $200 million lottery, I may give an extra "ha." If the wise-crack goes beyond a simple innuendo, I don't care if I become an instant billionaireness - I ain't laughin'. A lightbulb seems to go off if there is another female to guffaw at their lame attempt at standup comedy and the attackers retreat for a while, their attention spent on a captive audience. I thank God for my brief respite.
Like a cat and mouse, though, they return to play with their food, seemingly unable to keep their paws off me. Often it is an "accidental" brush of their fingertips across my back, the beginnings of a very dangerous game. Almost without a conscious effort my shoulders go rigid and I stay frozen until their mealy hand leaves, doubting that the callous hunters notice any difference. Unlike their friends in the wild they are terrible predators, only attuned to the most blatant signals. No wonder men never bothered flirting with the Amazon Women - they wouldn't have survived.
Some have the nerve to freely place their hands about my waist or in the small of my back as they "move me out of their way." Hey, I know, how about you Google the phrase "EXCUSE ME?" Then again, most of them are too lazy to even fly the plane, more often than not pushing the Easy Button and setting everything to autopilot. Of COURSE they can't be bothered with pretenses. Although it coud be that they are just too ancient to understand modern English, resorting to motion-infused grunts and cave-man paintings on the galley walls to communicate their needs.
A once over with their weasly eyes is often followed by the typical wink they employ when an outright cat-call must be tamed. I offer them the subtle jaw-clench. Or perhaps not so subtle. At times it feels like I'm biting through metal so dedicated am I in my endeavor to prove that body language and non-verbal cues are ninety percent of communication. I can hardly blame them for failing to understand. Obviously their vocabulary is very limited - sex, sex, and oh yeah, more sex. They probably think the Jaw Clench is one of the 265 Flirtatious Moves screaming from the cover of the current Cosmo mag.
Nights at the bar are definitely NOT the highlights of my trips, but hours on a plane is often cause for a raging appetite and so I go for the chips and salsa if nothing else. Being late is something I loathe with my very core, but if it ensures that the seats on both sides of the perching vultures are filled, I would gladly wait an eternity. As glasses are emptied and bellies slosh with poison, the real games begin.
I get a feeling right before it happens. Often it is reminiscent of sickness, like the hints of nausea before the virus hits full force. The fifty-year-old Captain, who sports a shiny bald spot with greasy leftover salt and pepper strands and a beer belly too large for a maternity top, makes his way to my place, wheezing his alcohol laden laugh in my direction. I'm waiting for the day I pass out from holding my breath. Note to self: stock up on smelling salts.
They often try their pathetic talent of beating around the burning loins bush, seeking refuge in innuendoes meant to evoke nervous laughter from the intended victim. I don't even take out my plastic grin, instead I merely strike right below the belt - "Yeah, Grandpa, I'll be sure to remember that next time we fly together!"
Brow furrows as realization dawns, and then, thank the heavens above, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable as he finally takes his long awaited cue and exits stage right.
I am saved. Awkward silence lingers for a few moments as the rejected auditioner returns to his seat, looking for all the world like a Dunce complete with pointy hat. At least, that's what I picture when I look at him. Inevitably my insides start to hurt from screaming with surpressed laughter.
Soon enough the conversation picks back up where it left off before the One Man Show; I gladly sink unnoticed into the background, people-watching, gears turning, my elders unknowingly showcasing valuable life lessons to the pulsing refills of beer on draft and the acrid sting of cigarette smoke.
Silently I thank them.
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